


It's best to ignore him when he's like this...

by fate_incomplete



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-11 11:10:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fate_incomplete/pseuds/fate_incomplete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is bored, John feels like punching him...so just another usual Tuesday morning...</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's best to ignore him when he's like this...

John studiously read the paper, refusing to look over it to where Sherlock was currently perched atop his chair. He could hear fingers tapping, could practically hear the cogs churning at a frantic, erratic, pace as Sherlock went through another period of boredom induced nicotine withdrawal. John couldn't help the hint of amusement at the thought Sherlock would probably be insulted by the term 'cog'.

John turned a page, pretended to be absorbed in an article about some scandal involving a French Diplomat. Sherlock stood on the chair. John could see his head above the edge of the paper, or at least he could if he was looking, which he most certainly wasn't. He read the first sentence three times as Sherlock jumped off the chair, circled it twice, flipped open a book on the table, before slamming it shut again in a huff.

Sherlock paced around the room, coming to a stop behind John's chair, leaning over his shoulder.

"Boring. Obviously his wife leaked the photos after finding them on his phone."

John irritably flicked the page, the movement rustling Sherlock's hair as he leant in further.

"Where are all the interesting murders?" He asked, grabbing the paper form John and hastily flipping through the pages manically. "Dull. Incredibly dull. Trite. Why do I even bother!" He yelled at the paper as he ripped it in half and tossed it across the room, a piece floating down to settle on John's lap.

John finally looked up at his friend, though on days like this, it was more like beyond irritating flatmate that he felt like punching in the face.

"Are you bored?" John asked innocently.

"Obviously."

"You could always clean up that mess in the fridge."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock replied, flipping his dressing gown around him, as if the idea of cleaning was insulting.

"What exactly was that again?"

"Pig's liver."

"Of course it was."

"Technically it still is."

"What?"

"It still is pig's liver...Putrefied now of course."

"Of course it is. Who doesn't have putrefied pig's liver in their fridge," John said quietly as he flicked the piece of paper off his lap.

"Where else was I going to put it?" Sherlock stated, as if John an idiot.

John pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, this conversation unfortunately not anywhere near weird, not when they'd had similar ones about a human head, eye balls, though those had been in the microwave, the three dead rats, and the finger he had found floating in what he had mistakenly thought was a milk bottle last week.

"There must be something interesting happening somewhere," Sherlock stated emphatically, throwing up his hands in disgust at the lack of excitement in his morning so far, before looking down at John, eyes flitting over his clothing, his hands and face.

No doubt noting that John hadn't bothered to shave that morning, so no plans for a date, his phone was sitting on the table next to him, three text alerts had sounded in the last two hours that he had ignored, sister drinking, again, faded ink stain on his hand where he had hastily written something down, notes on their latest case that they had wrapped up two days ago that he had yet to blog about, though more likely, the number of a woman he had met while out but had no intention of calling ...

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"You know, I'm not actually here to entertain you."

"Then what _are_ you here for?"

John gripped the arms of his chair with both hands, forcibly restraining them from doing something else, like hitting something, or more accurately, someone. "No...No reason at all...I'm going out."

As he walked down the stairs he could hear books being tossed as Sherlock continued to talk to him as though he hadn't left. John wondered just how wrong it was that he hoped something truly grisly and perplexing would happen, just so Sherlock would stop throwing things, and maybe he could have coffee in the morning without having to check for floating bits of anatomy first.

Actually, grisly entertainment or not, floating bits of anatomy were still a distinct possibility...

.......................


End file.
